my cheek flush, and my hands tremble when
he gave me any new proof of the love I
hungered, and yet half-dreaded, to be convinced
of.

I remember, how well! the first thing that
excited my mistress's (called her in my
proud humility) suspicion of the truth and
that first stirred up a joyful, thrilling hope in
my poor heart. Mr. Warden came to the
house one morning, it was earlier than he had
ever called before, and I was in the large
school-room, giving a music-lesson to the
youngest girl, the three elder sisters were in
the room that day, busily occupied with
various works of idleness, and still in
morning-costume, so that an authoritative knock
at the hall-door caused some alarm and stir.
But I went on giving my lesson, wearily
endeavouring to do the work of both teacher
and pupil. The door opened, and some one
entered before the young ladies had effected
their escape to their dressing-rooms; there
was a movement and flutter, but I did not
look round, or imagine that it in any way
concerned me.

"Mr. Warden was particularly anxious to
see our school-room, and to discover in what
praiseworthy manner you young ladies were
occupied here; so I have brought him in to
take you by surprise," I heard my mistress
say in her most gracious voice.

Then I just glanced round, for I always
felt a sort of interest in Mr. Warden for the
sake of a remembered and happier lang-syne,
though I did not expect him in any way to
reciprocate it. He was standing at the far
end of the room, surrounded by the four
ladies: in his hand he held a most glorious
bouquet of hot-house roses, which they were
all admiring; he did not hold them carelessly
and indifferently, and as if half-ashamed
of carrying them, as gentlemen generally do
flowers; but carefully, and tenderly, and
half-proudly. I saw this at a glance, and,
meeting his eyes, bowed slightly, and turned
back again to the music-book and my pupil's
heedless fingers, expecting that in a moment,
the ladies, the visitor, and his roses would have
vanished from my domain. But the fragrance
of those flowers reached me, it grew more
and more deliciously strong;—they must be
near.

I turned my head very, very slightly, and
became conscious that some one stood behind
me—that the precious flowers almost touched
my cheek.

"How very sweet they are," I ventured to
say, the flowers drawing the words from me;
for their perfume seemed to have entered my
heart.

"Are you not weary, Annie? Your pupil
does not seem very attentive—isn't it tiresome
work?" Mr. Warden asked.

He was bending down to me, flowers in
hand. Somehow I could not answer—
something in tone or words touched me like
remembered music, and I longed to weep.

He had heard of me as Annie all his life,
and so forgot to call me anything else, even
now, when I was a poor governess, and he—
but I am sure he never thought of that. He
found me again, after having lost sight of me
for years, he found me unhappy, and took me
into his great heart.

I had not yet voice to speak when Mrs.
Stone bustled up.

"Has not Amelia been attentive this
morning, Miss Aston?" she asked with a
great appearance of concern.

"She has not been less so than usual,
ma'am," I answered coldly.

"You should complain to me, my dear,
when you find her troublesome; she is rather
a giddy child, I know. Come now, Amelia,
and have your bonnet put on, a walk will do
both you and Miss Aston good."

So saying, the lady went to the door with
the child, thinking that we followed her.

"A moment! " Harold interposed as I was
rising to do so. I sat down again in my chair
by the piano, bending my eyes on the pencil-case
my fingers were playing with, and wondering
vaguely what he could be going to
say. " I brought these for you," Mr. Warden
began hurriedly, holding out the roses; "you
said the other day how fond you were of
flowers. I came down from London last
night, and brought these from Covent Garden
—may I leave them with you?"

I did not hold out my hand, so he laid them
on my lap—they looked wondrous beautiful
on my black dress.

Harold glanced round the room; we were
alone; the young ladies had disappeared to
dress, meaning that Mr. Warden should
escort them for a walk that bright winter's
morning.

"I want to know," he began confusedly,
"are you happy here? How do they treat
you? Do not be proud with me, remember--"

I raised my eyes, full of tears, gratefully to
him. He should see that at least I was not
proud to him, to any who treated me kindly.

"Mr. Warden! " Mrs. Stone called from
the passage; " I know you are fond of
flowers—I want to show you something rare
in my conservatory. Oh! here you are! I
beg your pardon for leaving you, I thought
the girls had taken you into the drawing-room.
This way, if you please you must
stoop your tall head a little, I fear."

I was alone—I sat as he had left me—there
lay the flowers, I did not stir or touch them,
I only bent down over them, their fragrance
filling my soul, and, perhaps, a tear or two
falling on their petals. That fragrance must
have been a kind of intoxication, such wildly
beautiful thoughts stole in with it.

It was winter: but this precious gift over
which I bent carried me away to some
heavenly garden of perpetual rose-rich summer.
I gazed at my real roses, soft pink, rich
crimson, snow-white, bright golden, they shut
out the great, bare room, the gaunt bare